Written.

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

Path

Why don't you spit out the itch, onto the crowd which awaits some hurl from the stage, as the melody flows with a pair of dyed nails around the neck. And who's above who? Is it just a pair of glances as the backstage is some lost fragment of an eaten orb from her hands, well, why won't she feed me, just because I had declined. The reaction and the realization are the ones which hold the bottle, as we both drink from it to realize it's the same top.

It's harder to create when you're complete.

That's why the distance is held.

So something that we lack is described and is used as the tongue shivers, as I look above trying to see you above me, you're too high up, so why don't you fall down?

What about when you had tried and I had to sit, locked, trying to get you out, locking the door, feeling the scent of cigarettes behind and receiving no pleasure from the wife, but rather the teenage caught in the thirties outside, with the legs crossed behind, maybe you had your head against the wooden door.

You told me once you took a knife and started cutting your door, so that you could get out without using the handle.

I imagined you above me, the knife, splitting your bottom lip, blood trailing down into your v-cut, as I kept my hands to myself and you'd kiss me, tearing my stomach, to take what I had for breakfast and then you'd slide down, something cheesier than lunch.

You had to bang some more, three times an hour, cigarette after cigarette, I think I even opened the door, to see a pair of hazel eyes drawn on the eyelids, as the lips were held open, as I could fling my tongue beneath and defeat the tension so that it would fall to your legs, disturbing as my tongue on your cheek, grin.

I know you'd hold me, knowing that it happens brief if ever at all.

I remember you stood there, your legs crossed, I wonder if you can blow smoke rings, I never could, I never bothered, the possibilities muted by the songs and the pair of eyes, as if you expected me to be a mirror, but you traced my chest anyway, as if you'd step through, hair, now long, falling between the lips, so that we wouldn't catch anything out of each other's mouth, no denial and betrayal.

I remember you asked me, that one time when we laid why people photograph themselves naked, you didn't remember, so it was ok to touch until you'd close your eyes, the amount of liquid enough to make you vomit later and cry, as I picked up your hair, as everything poured out with the hidden fragments of myself.

You kept crying, knowing that all would be erased and my thought shall never be a sin.

I replied saying that the people wanted to be naked.

You nodded.

I took off my shirt, you exposed, beneath, as I traced my tongue down, not touching your lips and you had thrown your arms around me, legs beneath and something about you hinted that my tongue'd better be up, stroking your eyes.

You had woken up then, my shirt revealing your t-shirt, you took a pair of scissors, cutting off your lips, for them to fall, your mouth now a hole.

You took a needle and a big green thread, a colour you never wore and sewed it, your eyes closed, as the t-shirt bleached out as it were yellow before and I watched, as you closed your eyes, the sharpened edges helping to straighten your eyelashes.

The fear upon me, as I looked and would see you above me, the flower beneath, as if it were two and the image of the wife above, hanging as it were a praying Jesus and not some girl who was praised yesterday, causing the girl in front of me ask why the fuck did she have a tattoo on her buttocks, as if it were a remainder of something magnificent.

Then the thread, a purple one, started losing itself upon your jaw, revealing the polka dotted pattern beneath, as I sat up, my chest exposed and you had kissed it.

The tension gone and the thoughts upon your head as if it were a crown, my mind never foggy from alcohol just fear with countless stories to use against your throat as a razor.

I told you to stop it, knowing how to slit my wrists, as I'd pin you to the couch, tie your mouth, never touching it, even if my tongue were out and I'd take a kitchen knife and press it into the skin, the green scales falling off, revealing a story after a story, as I'd stick it deeper, reaching the bone, so that a string would be heard, my own skin would collapse, as you'd be there, you're eyelashes as blades and you'd grin, as I'd remove everything, the liver a colour green.

The colour you dislike, I painted it that way.

I woke up once, and cut my chest, up to the line between my legs and took everything out one by one, painting it with oil paint. I failed a degree in art, did I tell you that? I cut the canvas in half along with a person's head, the eyes my white as I had traced his teeth against the remains of the canvas pressing the holes, as I had felt tension and I had stroked myself, the hair behind, curly, as you'd seen, before you held my head in front of the mirror, not touching my lips and mouth, your fingers upon my cheeks, as you dug them in and I had kissed my reflection.

Everyone watched, as I came upon the walls, exhausted and upon the split dead corpus and it had been beautiful.

Art gives you the best orgasm you can think of, as blood deals as lube and the music instruments are some forgotten promise if all you need a need which no one sees or maybe I had imagined myself to be one, because the brushes were taken aside from me, a guitar instead.

I could stick it inside you, even your mouth, your ear, watching your eyes get covered in strings, as I'd play along with the last beats no one really needs and I shall be labeled as sick, as some melancholy shall take over the world around, maybe then I'd kiss you and not the wife which my life had given me with the children I cannot touch.

So can I open the door and see you exposed, as I took the last bottle of green paint, tracing it into my mouth and eating it as if it were the yoghurt you eat just to get the taste of it upon my lips to suck, as I kept my fingers inside, the rust, the snow, falling off as I'd wonder what eternity is along with the attraction you hold, as if we were pulling each other into a song.

Hey, you're above.

Hey, I'm above.

Hey, were not there yet.

Let there be a crisis of genre as the time falls into a pair of golden locks you'd hold upon your teeth, brackets to protect the food you chew.

Let it be me.

Let me ride you until you gag

I want to be the woman

I want to be mad at you for nothing

I want to be proved fake

I want to be the camel which dies

I want to be chewed

Gag

Gag

Gag

Gag
Bleed

Fuck

Live

Suck

Fuck

Musicaaah

I want to shoot my face

I want to remain conscious, to draw what I see, to take it all out feed it to her to slice her in two, after she feasts upon my fingers, an act of love, as I'd tear her skin, maybe I'd buy glitter to stroke myself in it, she has a choice to suck or not while I don't, I just do.

Then it would pierce my brain

A needle with no middle

And it'd ache

It's a glow in the dark axe

My mind builds a dream

So I dream of it again

Until I cut it off and hung it on my bed

To scare the muted silence

I want to hear it scream

I want to pin it

It's golden innocence

A shed

To fill

Lick

Up

Down

Pleasure

Taste

Fuck

So let me hang you as a portrait to stroke in the mornings and eat my own flesh in front of you as you dye the day green.

Open my skin like a shirt

Cut the donut in half

To lick the knife

As the tongue gets polished with blood

Give it out in candy wrappers

For people to lick their fingers

Why don't you sell your thoughts?

Just tap the brain twice

It'll open and leak

Into the mouth

To sell

You write those words on your thighs, as you lift your tight jeans up and they make your skin crack, but you continue writing with the nails on your fingers. You tear one off with you teeth, as I see you below, your head underneath, eyes closed. You know that I want to be that cigarette, the one hanging from your lips to fall between your legs and burn a feeling you ought to feel from a man as you sin upon the faith you were given, the portraits of people who never sinned, who never came upon another person and moved on to cheat on themselves, to take off all the mirrors as the fingers trace the areas between the legs.

Sex is disgusting.

Why don't we end it once, so I grab her by the wrist, dark eyes exposed, as I run my fingers down her arms, my thoughts my thoughts as I press her against, her mouth open wide to suck, as everything is torn and laid, as a tongue looks on my neck and I hurl her across the room, music upon my ears which I had once produced.

I grab a brush with my fingers, take everything off, hold her neck, dig in slowly, as I kiss her, expose her legs, raise them, hear a few clicks, as the wires break around her neck and I pierce them with my fingers, my fingers now red and I lick it off, my hand traveling down, as she breathes heavier and I trace her body with my fingers, take a few hairs from her hair, let her skull break, shards falling apart as they crush each other, a tongue on the side licking the banality I shouldn't hold.

She's beautiful upon the last breaths as I go inside to feel the blood circle and go cold with each thrust inside.

I take the body away from me, as I fall and I put it on the floor, shattered, as I put several lego pieces in her mouth to feel her hands stroke my hair as she lures me in.

All am illusion, as I squeeze in a few pieces between her breasts.

Cut off her left three ribs, take them out,

stick them in her head, piercing her eyes, as she screams, she's there, stroking my hair softer, words coming out of her mouth, as she licks my bottom trembling lip. Let her, as she gets me on top, now her hair short and the blood pools long, as she scratches my lip until it breaks in two.

I kiss her all over, the blood, the longing,

I'll never achieve, as sleep is cancelled upon the woman which lays, as I stretch her arms out, out her head to a side, eyes wide open, I want them to see, as I paint her body and she tells me her childhood, eyelashes sold, as I look further and stroke her chest, as I rip it open, the lungs now with pencil holes as I take them in and out, ashes going out, as her lips move.

Death is not overkill.

I raise her to stand, she talks, I do not listen, as I yank her shoulder blades to resemble wings, as her stomach is deleted, her legs growing from her opened chest, as she comes back from death, gasping her chin falling upon the floor and she looks around, one eye, two eyes, as the bone, the rib scratches her eye.

She eats a nipple, she feeds me one.

She traces a line upon my side and releases my veins, a long line of wires with trembling hands, the war lost to take one vain of mine and cut it in two, one strip against her earlobe, another across my front tooth. She yanks it and my head falls upon her knee, as the frame builds the gold as the glitter falls from her nose and she feeds it to herself.

My veins all metal, as she rips them all off and feeds her to her stomach, making one out of it, she takes it further, she takes my swollen face and feeds it to a lego tiger so that it says rawr.

My hand is aching, I scatter it to remove the skin and she bites the meat, my blood now her blood, as she peels off the bones with the jeans and goes on top, the lungs exposed and the holes

Breathe in

Breathe out

Hang me on the wall

Make me come

As you stroke the rib you now pierce my eye with

Just do it

I stick my tongue inside, fingering the lung holes, as I feel her hair and her exposed body above, now near as I open to see bright lights and my hands locked upon a body locked as the organs are sold among the walls, hands touching, let me let me let me

I never kiss.

The walls immerse my thoughts and my blood cough as I am pinned into them with a bunch if eyes and brushes as I am inside for the arrows to hold me down and pierce the flesh to stick, devour and use as a weapon vexes you control it with sex and all the fetishes you hold to stroke as she comes inside me, the dildo real.

Bitebitemunchmunchfuckfuck.

Water grip.

Not done.

Pierced wave to cut upon

As she is hurled onto the floor and fucked

With organs inside just for the rescue,

so that it'd ache more.

-

Beats Immerse, doesn't it? Yes, I love the theme of sickness and death. I like, I love the feeling you get when you simply push it to the max and just see yourself write.

Path was written in two massive chunks the stage and the girl sitting behind the door and then the whole artist backstory came up. It was written for a contest, but didn't win. But I get to publish it here, that's what I love in my blog, I choose everything and I do not hold.

I am published in a Six Sentences anthology though:)

The more I write the more I see Naked Lunch's influence in me, if to be honest.

There is a poll if you scroll down on the left. Think wisely whom you'd shag and it has Exit's characters as well, as all shall make an appearence soon.

There's the layout and there's the story.

(2015): I had started writing this story back then with Jack and Alison in mind, but I didn't use their names to submit it to that contest, which I didn't get into, but y'know by the end of the day I'm the one, wondering if they even took off xD I'm mean, I guess xD either way, it's still an interesting story and even if it doesn't contain their names it was written with them in mind and inspired by them as well:)

I guess I'll shed some more light onto the backstory here, because I still love this story years on and regarding the door and knife, it was something I had done as a child, I have no idea why I had that claustrophobia or whatever the fuck that was and it was used in the story. But that's all what is taken from life xD

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Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.

My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.

My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.

The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.

And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.

And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.

Because our anger is valid.

We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.

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Fanfiction legal disclaimer

I do not own any of the character, band or other names based off real persons and groups; they served only as inspiration for my characters in the stories, whose rights I own. The works published herein and elsewhere by me are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real life events is merely coincidental. No libel or slander is intended.